Heartbeat of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  The memories of the evening before, the graveyard, and the story had all but usurped the celebration of their reunion. Maybe tonight there would be no interruptions. She needed time to grasp what made him different from before.

  Ian took off his coat, looking around with bright eyes; he so loved a crowd. They found a place near the bar.

  Across the room, a couple of windblown sailors sat at a table by the window. Their reek overpowered the myriad of smells in the room. Zelda, one of the town doxies, sat on Pete Stowe’s lap, shrieking with laughter.

  Stowe yelled into her ear, loud enough for all to hear. “The man is crazy as he ever was, buying a garish wagon like an ill-bred gypsy. Fool. Mayhap he’ll do us a favor and disappear in it.”

  Zelda giggled.

  Just then, Josef walked by Stowe’s table, rammed into him with a heavy pewter tray, and knocked Zelda off his lap.

  Josef narrowed his eyes at Stowe. “Get out.”

  Stowe slinked off the stool. “Let’s take our party to the Shipwreck. They’re a mite friendlier over there.”

  Ian pointed to the corner, where hidden by the polished mahogany bar, Vicar Andrews sat alone, watching Sabine carrying a tray of drinks and comestibles. No wonder he stared. Sabine had plumped up nicely, her face glowing with good health Maggie could not imagine the Siren Inn without the girl now.

  Josef rushed in behind the bar, carrying a cask, with a grim look upon his face.

  Lena appeared with a tray of dishes in her hands and pointed her head toward Vicar Andrews. “The holy boy spends much time here at the Siren.”

  “I see.” Ian grinned.

  They watched as Sabine stood at Vicar Andrew’s table, cocked her head, and waited. “You want…something?”

  He blushed, wig askew. “Uh.”

  Everyone who attended church knew when the good vicar got excited about something, he had a problem modulating his voice.

  He gawped at her and roared, “Um, yes. A shepherd’s pie, please, and fried potatoes.”

  Sabine started, then repeated the order softly to herself.

  Despite the uproar of the place, the crowd grew silent. Every ear tuned in to see what would happen.

  Sabine turned to leave.

  “Another ale if you please, dear, erm,” He blurted, and blushed furiously.

  Maggie took pity on him and rose, ignoring her aching legs.

  “Vicar, good evening. I quite enjoyed your sermon last Sunday.”

  “Oh, I didn’t see you there at first, Mistress Maggie.” He stood, straightened his wig, and bowed.

  “Yes, I had just seen the Thompson baby safely into the world. I arrived late, but in time to hear your words of wisdom.”

  “Yes, a lovely baby with her mother’s red hair. One of God’s little lambs, welcomed into our fold.”

  The Lord had some competition for his affections tonight, though. The vicar’s eyes wandered once again in Sabine’s direction.

  Ian sauntered over with Vicar’s food and ale. “Your servant, sir.”

  “Please sit down,” Vicar said, an ominous tone to his voice.

  “Your friend Josef continues to tell his horrid stories all over town. He came to me this morning, asking me to keep watch with him tonight to make sure his nephew does not emerge from the grave like last night. He instructed me on what to do if he does. For he will, he said, and the consequences will be dire. I tried to talk some reason into him, to no avail.”

  Ian nodded. “I assure you, Vicar, we have talked to Josef about the foolishness of his stories. I helped him bury his nephew and can make no sense of the body disappearing. But there must be a sensible explanation for it.”

  “You must get your friend to keep still. I will not have my flock divided by superstition and stories of evil.” He suddenly seemed years older. “And there’s something else.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. “Have you seen these?” He handed it to Maggie.

  It had the title, “Beware the Vampire at the Siren Inn,” and a picture of a creature with dark wings and fierce fangs dripping with blood.

  “What foolishness,” she said.

  “Yet people have been bringing me these all day.”

  “I saw Pete Stowe and his mother passing something out. They are spreading this poison.”

  “They are determined to discredit Josef and make the most of his grief,” Ian said.

  “But why?” Maggie asked.

  Josef tended to the group of sailors gathered in the corner. One of them leaned his chair against the wall, well into his cups. Under normal circumstances, Josef would be talking to them in his quiet way, showing everyone equal respect by virtue of his listening ears. But tonight, he looked down at his work, face red, hands shaking the tray he held.

  “I don’t like the looks of Josef,” said Ian.

  Just then, the sailor who’d leaned against the window bolted upright, spilling his ale. “Tell us the stories of these vampires, barkeep. About how they roam the town after sunset, taking the blood of the innocent and returning to their graves.” He burst out laughing. “I hear you know one intimately.”

  His cohorts cheered and guffawed.

  Josef shook his head, mouth pressed together, and slid the bowls of chowder on the table.

  “Yes.” The drunken one poked Josef in the forearm.

  Josef clanked the tray down.

  “Aye,” the man said. “Good time for a story, no matter how far-fetched.” He laughed, spraying ale over the table.

  Josef grabbed the man’s greasy hair, twisted it in his hand, and lifted him off his feet.

  “This is no laughing matter,” he shouted. “Good people have lost their lives, do you hear? I will teach you to have respect for the dead of my homeland.” He shook him. The whites of the sailor’s eyes showed as he screamed. His companions stood, fists at the ready.

  Ian rushed forward. “How about another round for these valiant men of the sea, Josef?” He deftly removed Josef’s hand from the sailor’s head, eyeing the rest of his crew with a hard eye. “Your wife is looking for you.”

  Josef shook himself like a dog doused with water and headed for the kitchen. More than a few customers left their food uneaten and scurried out the door.

  Ian towered over the table and stared the men back down in their seats. “I heard there was a motherlode of fish today, and the sea nearly got the better of you. But you prevailed.” Ian glanced around and motioned for Sabine to refill their ale. “My friends, raise your mugs for our brave men of the sea!”

  A goodly amount of the customers cheered, and the sailors were happy again, crowing about their success.

  There was no shortage of talk about Josef’s uncharacteristic behavior, and more than a handful of people thought it prudent to go elsewhere.

  Ian shook his head. “If our good friend can’t find some way to contain himself, he will soon find himself out of customers. But we have a much bigger problem.”

  “What is it?” Maggie asked.

  “Josef is burning up with fever.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Pray God Lena does not sicken as well,” Maggie said. “While you help him to bed, I will give Sabine a hand.”

  A while later, all but a few stray sailors had cleared out of the inn. Maggie sat at a table with Sabine when Ian appeared from the private quarters.

  “He is resting,” he said. “There are no other symptoms besides the high fever, but it is taking a toll on him. There is nothing I can do for him, beyond the willow bark, but I told Lena to send for me should his condition worsen later.” He picked up her cloak. “Now I must get you home.”

  They hurried to the cottage as the rain slashed at them like swords. Ian held Maggie’s arm to keep her steady. The wind hastened their journey as they headed uphill toward the shoppe.

  They were soaked to the skin when they arrived home. Ian took off her cloak and handed her a piece of linen with which to dry. He peeled off his wet shirt and rushed to bui
ld the fire. Despite her shivering, she could not prevent an intake of breath at the sight of his wide shoulders, the muscled strength of his haunches as he squatted by the fire, bringing a glow to the room and to her center. Then, he grabbed the bucket and headed outside.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m fetching water. You will need to warm up.”

  “I’m not a delicate flower.”

  “You are to me. Your body is laboring—pardon the pun—to grow a child, and you need your rest.”

  “And what about you, Ian? You will catch your death of cold.”

  He stood there for a moment, the strength of him belying her concern. Before she knew it, he had the water ready. He had taken off his breeches, and his thighs glistened with rain.

  A shiver ran through her at the sight of him as he moved the washstand closer to the fire.

  “So you might wash in comfort,” he rumbled.

  Water pooled in her mouth as she watched the movement of his thigh muscles under their dusting of dark gold hair. His chest shone with the rain, making the hair gathered there shine in the firelight. His member lay stiff and long against his muscled belly. He had been gone from her nigh on three months, but seemed so different, more powerful, more…

  “Turn around, Maggie.”

  He undid her bodice and untied the ribbon of her shift, draping a linen cloth over her. He knelt before her and removed her boots and stockings. She shivered, but not from the cold.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  She nodded. “You don’t need to wash me. I can wash myself.”

  “Let me serve you.” He leaned over her, a warm cloth in his hand already scented with tuberose soap. He washed her face, long fingers sliding over her forehead, as he hummed a melody she had not heard before, his Adam’s apple moving, hoarse voice laced with sweetness, and a kind of innocence, newly born and singing fresh from the soul.

  His gaze met hers, hazel flecks in his green eyes shimmering in the firelight’s reflection. “Does this please you?”

  Her voice rasped, “Yes. How could it not?”

  As if a man like him would ever need her approval, but indeed it seemed as if his world depended on it. He paused to put the cloth in warm water, and she looked at his profile, the high cheekbones and long mouth, lips pursed in concentration.

  He lowered the sheet to expose her shoulders. “Your skin, Maggie. So soft. How I missed it.” He grasped her hands. “I am sorry, Maggie.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I was gone so long from you, and I have nothing to show for it, no remedy, no litio. All I have is a splintered memory of when the goddess put the cup to my lips, and slowly I emerged from the shattered self I’d become. The litio had a sweet, earthy taste, slightly bitter. I remember nothing else.” He lowered his eyes, jaw clenched. “I have failed you, for I am still…not what you deserve.”

  “Look at me,” she said. “You had to go, not just for me, but for the people of the town.”

  “I will never be the perfect man, Maggie.”

  Rain lashed against the window, and gusts of wind blew down the chimney, dousing the fire before it came to life again. Thunder shook the cottage.

  “Let us not talk of it, for you are here now. It is not your fault, Ian. Life is not perfect, or neat and tidy.” She reached up and kissed him. “Have you ever seen a child being born? It is messy and primitive. And joyful. And you, you are like new life to me, Ian.”

  “Let me care for you, Maggie. Let me anoint you with my love.”

  Her heart pounded in her throat. He painstakingly washed her breasts, her back, her privities, until she felt reborn. He wrapped the linen around her, as lightning flashed upon his face.

  He bent to grasp her foot in his hand, and pressed his thumb from the center of her foot to her toes, a slow, repetitive slide. He set her foot down like a fine porcelain cup, and picked up her other foot, repeating the movements.

  She laid her head back on the chair as her womanhood grew moist. Her thighs clenched. “Ah. How do you do this to me? How can you touch my feet and pleasure me this way?”

  In answer, he took her hand and led her upstairs into bed.

  His eyes glinted like sparks as he held himself over her. “Turn over,” he commanded. “I have some unguent to ease your shoulder.”

  She obeyed, and he gathered her thick, waist-length hair to one side, sinking his face into it. “How I missed the scent of you! It haunted me wherever I went.”

  He straddled her, knees on either side, and rubbed the ointment into her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the sorest spot.

  “Mmm. It smells good.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I had it made for you.”

  “It smells foreign, exotic.”

  “Wintergreen and eucalyptus.” He ran his fingers up her scalp and pressed small circles down her neck.

  He lowered himself, resting his loins upon her bottom. “Am I too heavy for you?”

  “No.” The rigid length of his cock rested in the cleft of her bottom. She grew moist and could not help but lift herself to encourage it.

  “Not yet. Let me take care of you, sweeting. You take care of everyone but yourself.”

  He applied more of the ointment and worked his fingers down her back, releasing every tired muscle. His palms claimed her buttocks, setting her body on fire. He kissed the side of her face, and she turned her head to kiss him.

  “Maggie, when I was away from you, I felt as if the ground moved underneath me and I could not get my footing.”

  “I felt empty,” she whispered. “Fill me, Ian. Fill me up.” She rolled over to face him.

  He moaned and she guided him into her, rising to meet him. His hands caressed her breasts as he sank himself into her pulsing center. He drew his member out with agonizing slowness, her privities clenched him, but he held himself at her opening, enticing her.

  She grabbed his hair and pulled him toward her, rising, rising, and he plunged his hard length into her, until she could feel all of him. She thrust against him, his flames licking her, and when he called her name, pleasure consumed them both, his essence pumping into her to quench the fire.

  He kissed her, making tendrils of sensation race over her. “Oh, Maggie. I love you so.”

  She could not speak, could only lift her lips to his and answer with her center clenching him again. The storm battered the cottage, while she melted against him, hand upon his chest, his heart pounding against her palm, a steady beat protecting her from the storms around them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The storm continued to pound the cottage, providing an eerie accompaniment to Ian’s music. He sat before the fire, his mind recalling the sights and sounds of recent travel. His fingers plucked the memories from the strings, the melody surging within him.

  If he could only be upstairs wrapped in the comfort of Maggie’s soft embrace, not fighting his demons with a violin. Nothing to be done about it, but what the good Hindu doctors had taught him. He set the instrument on his lap, willed his feet to stop tapping. He closed his eyes, inhaled slow and steady, heeding his breathing like a mother listens for her babe’s steady breathing. He had to listen closely through the raging of the storm outside. And the storm within him too.

  He let out his breath: steady as she goes, steady in and out again. Josef’s tales of blood and horror snaked through his veins, dry scales scraping through every inch of him, ponderous as a dirge, strange, sinister and menacing, Josef’s madness—or was he?

  He did Josef no good with his agitation. He was a doctor. He would find what ailed his friend. He lit another candle and perused the Galen tome in search of an answer. His every instinct told him Josef was stricken with more than grief and a mere fever. His aggression was pronounced. And what had caused Nikolaus’ death? He thumbed through the pages, then stopped. No. Hydrophobia was a disease as old as time, but there had been no cases of it in the region for as long as he could remember. No. He would not entertain the notion of
such a horrific possibility. Josef would rally round, as he always did. He shut the book, no longer able to concentrate.

  His thoughts raced, and suddenly, he was splashed with a memory of Bedlam’s doctors, of cold water, of his frustration, for he could not get them to understand his urgency, the need to write the music, the most perfect music, coursing through his veins, seeping through his skin. They liked to hear him sing well enough, the inmates and visitors alike, even the keepers. They loved his dulcet tones and clever rhymes, until they wanted him to stop, but then he could not, no more than Josef could stop the airing of his fears.

  Their remedy, to tie him in a chair. He struggled mightily, hit his head when the chair fell over, fists, boots, bruises, blue, and they lowered him, the water rose over him, cold, fetid, the piss of those who came before, and too late he held his breath. His lungs burned, head bursting as he fought against the darkness.

  Had they studied it, the doctors? To see how long a man could be submerged without drowning? Certainly, for just as he could hold his breath no longer, they brought him up, threw him back into the cell. Bone deep cold, coursing through his veins, he shivered on the hard floor, his bruised flesh ringing in his ears. The laughter echoed in the corridor, deep discussion.

  “Did it work?”

  “He’s not singing anymore, annoying bastard.”

  So cold.

  Ian picked up his violin and began to play. He would control his affliction as best as he could, with his music, until he found the remedy. God willing, he would discover what ailed his good friend, Josef.

  ****

  Maggie woke a few hours after their lovemaking, to the sound of Ian playing a stringed instrument. The mournful melody sent shivers up her spine. She put on her robe and went downstairs.